


healing hands

by idyllicange



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Semi-Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Low Magic, M/M, taking literally 'the hands of a king are the hands of a healer', Éomer is a king and Faramir is his security detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyllicange/pseuds/idyllicange
Summary: After peace negotiations turned bloody, Éomer seeks Faramir out.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	healing hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [george_squashington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/george_squashington/gifts).



> a request from an ask meme a while ago, previously posted on tumblr [here](https://idyllicange.tumblr.com/post/618871325378904064/hi-can-i-request-lacerate-and-youre-hurt) from george_squashington on here/kesselins on tumblr and twitter. this is part of a bigger alternate universe that i have in my head, but for now, have this.
> 
> The Lord of the Rings, and all characters and settings therein, belongs to j.r.r. tolkien.

Éomer pushes through the security, frazzled men of his own ilk trying desperately to keep the horse lord contained. The hallway outside the heavy oak doors still has spots of blood, dribbled between spread fingers and spraying from slit arteries. 

New peace is hard to enforce when wayward colonies and kingdoms have not yet been freed of Sauron’s shadow. Rogue forces, scattered but determined, each testing the reach and boundary between the domains of men. He’d grabbed his sword, would have been first in the hall, had a certain ranger not pushed him into the arms of his guard to be brought away from the skirmishes. 

Éomer’s seen his fair share of magic and ancient works, but he does not pretend to be the best equipped to handle them. His strengths lie in strategy and the material, the mundane world save for the mysticism of horses. But the hands of a king are those of a healer and that, he’s recently discovered, is not simply about the health and care of his people. It comes with its own schools of magic, spells, and other abilities Éomer truly expected to never fall to him. 

The horse lord stalks his way through the blood slicked halls, blindly, foolishly, looking for that familiar green and brown, muted and more used to fields than courts. 

He catches a glimpse of him, between yet more guards from various entities, each seeking to put a name on the peace hard won and fought for by Rohan and Gondor, but he will leave that anger to the side for now. He pushes past them, seeking only one other. 

He watches as Faramir holds a hand against his side, keeping it flat and tight, speaking quickly and lowly with someone or other. Éomer cannot explain what happens next, only that one moment he is rounding the corner, chasing Faramir’s voice, and the next he’s got Faramir pinned against a door inside a closed room, just the two of them. 

Wild hazel eyes search stony grey, narrowed in pain or annoyance or something else. 

“I’m fine,” Faramir assures, knowing what Éomer needs to hear so they both don’t devolve into yelling at each other.

Éomer wrenches Faramir’s hand away from his side, and sees the palm and those lovely archers fingers coated in blood. “You don’t look fine to me,” he counters in a tight voice. 

“And the brute who did it now lies headless in a hallway. You worry too much and – what are you _doing_?” 

“You’re hurt because of me,” the horse lord murmurs, trying to steady his breathing, gently working his fingers towards the stab wound. “The least I can do is fix it.” 

The familiar crackling ozone thunders through him, like he’s a conduit for a storm, wild but willing to obey him for a brief moment. He hears Faramir’s breath hitch, then hears him cough, feels the wet spray of blood against the side of his face…but it subsides. The wound heals, and the ranger’s breathing comes easier. Éomer pulls back, blooded fingers and face a small price to pay for Faramir’s safety. 

The ranger looks at him with a curiosity, grey eyes brimming with conflicting desires. He wants to know more of the power, but he’s also (rightfully so, in his opinion), beyond pissed about Éomer pulling him aside to give him care first and foremost, before anyone else. 

“I–” 

“Éomer.” The words are soft, and a gloved hand comes up to cup the horse lord’s face, the shorter, nimbler man looking up at his lord. “…We can speak later.” 

Éomer agrees - they _can_ and probably _should_ speak later - but for now, he’s willing to broker their own peace with a kiss. Faramir, despite so much of his better judgement, melts into it. 


End file.
